Poemsby Emily Dickinson
If I may have it when it's dead I will contented be; If just as soon as breath is out It shall belong to me,
Until they lock it in the grave, 'T is bliss I cannot weigh, For though they lock thee in the grave, Myself can hold the key.
Think of it, lover! I and thee Permitted face to face to be; After a life, a death we'll say, - For death was that, and this is thee.